


Words Written on Hands

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Het, Love, Quidditch, Unplanned Pregnancy, betrothal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Potter is a lovesick fool, Parkinson is small, Greengrass has a filthy mouth and Malfoy might win (but he's still going to lose, damn it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Written on Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006 hprare_exchange. I had a different story planned and half-written, but it just didn't want to be told right now, so I revamped it completely. Prompt: They both need/want something, but there's only one of that thing left. Not HBP-compliant. 7th year.

Harry circled the pitch slowly, only half paying attention to the raucous game going on below him. Someone scored, he didn't know which player or even which team, and if the snitch was somewhere out in all this mess, it certainly didn't want to be found.

He looked up when he heard his name being tossed about like an insult with a familiar lilting voice. Parkinson sneered at him from beneath a green scarf—wrapped around her head to keep the wind from tussling her hair—and he fought to contain his grin.

"Potter sucks!" she yelled, voice carrying to him even from quite a distance. Greengrass, an innocent-, demure-looking friend of hers with a repertoire of nasty words to put the devil to shame, gave him the two-finger salute and yelled something obscene from beneath golden curls.

He did a loop on his broom and swerved startlingly close to their seats in the stands just to be an arse. Greengrass shrieked something else too vulgar to even think, but Pansy winked at him, even while her mouth was still sneering, and Harry's stomach flipped. Just like it always did when she looked at him.

Luna's voice declared that it had been Slytherin with the goal, but Gryffindor was still ahead by over a hundred points. If that damned snitch would just show up, he could catch it, put in an hour at the celebratory party, and slink off to spend the rest of the evening with Pansy.

The sudden silence of the crowd caught him by surprise. Harry looked over to see Pansy's eyes, wide with shock, and Greengrass, too stunned to think of anything appropriately crass to say.

Panic overcame him, and he fumbled in his Quidditch robes for his wand, thinking that, somehow, some way, Voldemort had managed to resurrect himself yet again and was attacking the school. He whirled on his broom, wand raised, only to find that there were no wizards in black cloaks and white masks anywhere to be seen. 

Instead, the entirety of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams were staring open-mouthed at one player, who sat atop his broom seventy feet in the air with his eyes trained on his fist in disbelief.

"Professor Snape might do well to at least attempt to look pleased instead of incredulous, as it is  _his_  student—Hogwart's very own Draco Malfoy—who is currently holding the snitch. Proper affirmation is crucial to the developing mind," Luna was saying. 

Harry's mouth fell open along with everyone else's.

Malfoy caught the snitch.

"This brings the score to Gryffindor 230, Slytherin 250," Luna continued. "With this win, Slytherin has overtaken Hufflepuff by ten points in the standings, and will compete with Gryffindor in four weeks for the Quidditch Cup." She sounded as dispassionate as ever.

Malfoy caught the snitch.

-

Later that night, when Harry's breath was slowly fading out into something that at least resembled normal, he wondered what his friends and the other Gryffindors were going to say when he eventually made his way back to the tower. 

He could imagine the atmosphere of the room when he walked in, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to think about how Ron would complain while simultaneously telling Harry  _'It's not your fault, mate. Malfoy must've cheated,'_  or how Hermione would purse her lips and say  _'Quidditch isn't everything,'_  or how Colin most likely capture the moment with his camera. And the other Gryffindors would stare at him silently and wonder if his luck was finally running out, and, by default, if theirs was, too.

"Really, Potter, stop fretting."

Harry rolled over and tugged Pansy to him until her hair was nestled beneath his chin and her back was pressed against his stomach. When she was like that, Harry could pretend that she was really his, and that he, for once, had something that was all his own.

The problem with that was that anything that was ever his own ultimately became everyone else's, and what didn't, was inevitably taken from him. He squeezed her close and meticulously ignored the first fifteen years of his life.

"I'm not fretting," Harry denied. He could feel her laughing beneath him, and he slid his fingers between hers to keep her close. 

"Of course you are," Pansy said. There was a silence, and then she added, conversationally, "Interesting game today."

Harry hummed. It hadn't been very interesting from his vantage point, but, he supposed, perspective was everything. Or maybe he had just been spending too much time around a Slytherin. The thought sent an ache of  _something_  coursing through his veins, and he knew that he didn't want to give up this particular Slytherin for anything. He squeezed her tighter to him and tried to memorize the way her body felt against his—just in case…just in case precedent continued.

"I suppose."

"But of course that isn't what you're worried about, is it?"

"No," Harry answered without thought. He tensed; he'd walked right into that.

It was getting fairly warm outside lately, but when Harry had opened the window in their makeshift room earlier that night—the one they had claimed and made their own throughout the course of the school year—he hadn't expected it to be there solely as a reminder that he was  _not_  shivering due to the cold. 

The silence stretched on, punctuated only by their steady breathing. Pansy waited because she would have never asked him directly what was wrong, and they both knew it.

"What do you want more than anything else in the world?" he finally asked her, and that was something he had picked up over the last seven months as well: never answer indirect questions directly.

Pansy shifted in front of him, and he tightened his fingers with hers to keep her from moving too far away. She rolled over until she was on her back, absently stretched her spine, and stared at the ceiling. It was as if she were trying to make herself bigger—big enough to answer the question—but she was small, and always had been. Harry didn't think it would work.

"What do  _you_  want more than anything else in the world?" Pansy asked instead. 

Harry rolled his eyes and threaded the fingers of his other hand through her dark hair, realizing that it was considerably longer than it had been the first time he had ever done that. He remembered, during one of their first encounters, telling her she should let it grow out, and wondered what it meant that she had.

"Love," he said predictably.

"Love?" Pansy snickered beside him; giving him one of those looks she usually saved for when he'd made a complete arse of himself in class and she was trying to look at him disdainfully, but desperately wanted to grin instead. Seeing it, he kissed her sloppily and, after her indignant squeals tapered off, pulled back grinning.

"Yeah. Love," he affirmed.

Pansy snorted. "There's no such thing."

But they had had this conversation a hundred thousand times before, and Harry knew exactly how it would go and exactly how it had gone every time before. He raised their joined hands and studied them in the faint light creeping in from the open window. "Course there is, stupid. Love's everywhere."

"You're a daft fool, Harry Potter," Pansy murmured many long minutes later.

"Yeah, well you're short and skinny and you've got no tits."

Pansy snorted and lowered their hands. "I'm willowy," she corrected. "And besides, you're awkward and gawky and you've got no arse."

"Boys aren't supposed to have arses, Parkinson," Harry lectured her in mock disdain. "Girls are—which is why it's such a shame that you don't."

Pansy finally laughed, and then slapped him to make up for it. Harry was still grinning through the sting of it when the sound died and the echoing silence took its place. 

"Do you think your house is still celebrating?" Harry asked a minute later. The old, worn out clock on the wall claimed it to be just after midnight, but the clock was, of course, worn out, and could have been wrong just as easily as right.

"Probably. It's the first time we've ever beaten Harry Potter. I imagine that most of them will skip Hogsmeade on Sunday to keep celebrating."

Harry chuckled. "I like that  _you're_  celebrating with me. It has a nice irony to it."

Pansy smirked. "I didn't play the game; I see nothing to celebrate."

"Do you think they'll notice you're gone?"

"Malfoy won't," she answered. Harry's arm tightened around her waist and his fingers squeezed her hand again.

"Malfoy doesn't deserve you."

Pansy's lips tilted upwards. "And you do?"

"Yeah," Harry answered immediately. "Don't marry him."

"I don't have much say in the matter, Harry."

"Why?" he asked.

Pansy gave him a slow look. He knew why. "It's contracted. Since before we were born." 

Harry thought of the last seven months, and how they had been better than any other seven months of his life. Every time he went to Hogsmeade with his friends and ended up sneaking off to buy Pansy something he'd seen in a shop window or take her to eat lunch somewhere they wouldn't be seen, he'd felt like he was in another world. 

And sometimes, when he was in class and he caught her glancing at him from her seat next to Malfoy, his whole day would turn around and he would be able to ignore everything else just for the thought of sneaking down to the kitchens later that night to get cakes for them to eat by the lake when it was dark.

She was so lovely to him with her sweat-slick hair and her small feet and little mouth. When she teased him, it was always affectionately, but Harry had seen the way Malfoy insulted her, and the way she insulted him back, and there was nothing affectionate or teasing there. 

Harry could make fun of her small breasts all day long, and she would still know that he loved every part of her body. He didn't think the same was true for Malfoy, who largely ignored her, and when he didn't, was only because he had no other prospects. 

He pushed her until she rolled back over onto her side and pulled her against him again. Her bare skin was hot beneath his and his nose was pressed against her head. He inhaled deeply, and even though her hair was sticky with drying sweat and needed to be washed, he wanted her more than anything he had ever wanted in the world.

"Pansy, I—"

"Don't say it," she interrupted quietly.

"I know," Harry replied. And he  _did_  know because every time he tried, she always stopped him. But he still  _felt_  it, and he still wanted her all to himself. He still hated Malfoy for having her when he wanted nothing more in the entire world than to wake up every morning and know that she would be there.

He slipped his hand from hers then, and lightly ran his fingers over her palm, spelling out the words. Pansy allowed it, as she always did, even though Harry was certain she knew what he was saying and had all along.

Her body stilled as she waited for him to finish the pattern, and when he did, she grabbed his hand again, laced their fingers, and pulled him against her back. Harry fell asleep to the sound of Pansy's breathing, and the feel of her small fingers slowly relaxing as she dreamed.

-

The next morning, Harry woke to an empty bed in an empty room, and dreaded the thought of returning to the tower. He hadn't been back since before the game against Slytherin the afternoon before, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to even now.

Of course, the other Gryffindors would assume that he had been off sulking all night, but he didn't want to deal with it. The night before, he dreamed that he was flying, chasing the snitch, but that Malfoy had had it in his pocket the whole time.

He couldn't shake the feeling that somehow he'd lost more than just the game.

When Harry made it to the portrait hole, the Fat Lady was giving him a shrewd look. She pursed her lips at his dishevelled state and put her hands on her wide hips, saying, "Straighten your clothes before you go in, child. One look at you and the entire school will know you weren't upset about the game."

Harry obediently fixed his shirt and trousers as best he could, tried to flatten his hair, and said the password.

"She's not worth it if she treats you like that, dear," the Fat Lady said as she swung open. Harry nodded, but didn't believe her for a second. Of course Pansy was worth it.

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him when he entered, but he should have expected that. He had been missing since the day before, after all.

Preparing himself for the onslaught, Harry affected his most winsome smile, but it had only ever worked on Mrs Weasley, and as she wasn't the one preparing to attack him with a barrage of questions, he didn't expect to get very far. He didn't, but he gave it a good try anyway.

Still smiling, his left foot had only just grazed the first step to the boys' dorms when Hermione cleared her throat loudly. Closing his eyes in resignation, Harry threw his head back and sighed at the ceiling.

"Nice try."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, eyes still closed. He heard his two friends shifting on the couch and chanced a glance in their direction. Ron was looking shifty and Hermione was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Harry closed his again.

"Where were you last night?" Hermione asked. If Harry had given any thought to her tone of voice, he would have thought that it sounded suspiciously like she already knew.

"Out," Harry said. He turned from the stairs and looked at her stubbornly.

"Oh, really?" she asked. She was giving him the same sort of disbelieving look that he got from Hedwig sometimes when he was telling her that he didn't give a toss who Pansy married and the damned owl was probably thinking 'Bullshit' very loudly.

"Really," Harry replied wearily.

Hermione gave him a disarming smile and patted the couch between her and Ron. "Come sit, Harry." It was not merely a request—more a demand, which would end with his bollocks between the teeth of an angry dragon should he hesitate or decide not to do so.

Harry complied quickly, but under duress.

"I'm sorry, mate," Ron said immediately.

Harry's head turned towards Ron slowly, perhaps still a little sleep-addled, but more likely only apprehensive. Before he could even open his mouth to ask what Ron had done, and maybe start on a bit of damage control, Hermione was speaking again, and she sounded disappointed.

"Parkinson, Harry?"

Harry jumped. "What?" 

"I didn't mean to give you away, Harry!" Ron wailed. "I didn't know you'd be with her again. Hermione asked where you were, and I figured we'd give the map a go, and there you were!"

"Really, Harry—"

"—In some manky old classroom I've never seen and then your dot moved a bit and Parkinson's dot appeared under it, and—"

"Are you sleeping with Pansy Parkinson?" Hermione cut in. Harry was very thankful that it was still early and that the common room was empty.

"Yes," he said slowly.

Hermione looked as if she'd been slapped. "Harry, she's horrible!"

Harry winced and, in order to get the attention off of him, turned to Ron. "You don't seem very upset by it," he said.

Ron shrugged. "You don't have to like someone to screw them," he offered. Harry's face twisted with disbelief, but Ron seemed to have realised what he said a moment too late. His eyes went wide and darted over to Hermione, who was staring at him in open-mouthed shock.

Ron might not always make the best decisions, but Harry didn't always either, so when he saw Hermione gathering herself for a screaming rage, he meekly put himself back in the line of fire. It was for Ron's sake—who, even though it bit him in the arse occasionally, was loyal to a fault. 

If Ron had tried to protect Harry before—and he had obviously known it had been going on for a while—Harry could return the favour. Or at least try.

"It's not just sex."

Hermione deflated, having not expected that. "What?" she and Ron asked at the same time.

Harry shrugged. "I've been seeing her all year. I l…like her." 

"But she's dating Malfoy!" Hermione said.

"No, she's not," Harry replied, shaking his head. "She's engaged to him. Betrothed or something." He shrugged, showing exactly how much he understood the situation, even as his chest constricted achingly at the thought of Pansy married to that little snot.

Ron froze. "Is she really?" he asked carefully. "Contracted and everything?"

Harry, nodding dejectedly, missed the shocked glances that passed between his two best friends.

After the initial argument, which was stilted even to Harry's half-present attention, Hermione settled into a rather odd, girlish chat over relationships and love and flowers and rainbows. She asked him question after question, aiming to gauge his intent. Finally, fed up with his circuitous and meandering answers, she huffed.

"Do you love her, Harry?"

By now, Harry was past the point of suspicion and merely resigned. The question did not catch him off guard, and even though he might've once, he didn't stumble when he answered her clearly and surely, "Yes." Of course he did.

Ron choked, head thumping back against the couch. 

"Sorry, mate," Harry muttered absently, not sorry at all. It was only seven in the morning and he was already weary of this conversation. He didn't understand why Hermione was making such a big deal of it.

Yeah, Pansy wasn't always very nice, per se, but over the course of the year, after they started seeing each other, Harry thought he had noticed a concerted effort on her part not to be so much of a…bitch. And she was always nice to  _him_. Mostly. Even when she was telling him his hair was ghastly.

"What are we going to do?" Hermione sighed.

Harry gave her an incredulous look. "We?" he asked, eyebrows arched quite high. "I was under the impression that it was me who was going to have to give her up in two months."

Next to him, Ron laughed, but it sounded more like a choking sob. "Harry, mate," he began pleadingly. Harry stared at him. "Why?" Ron asked.

"Why what?"

"Why her? Why Parkinson? Why a Slytherin?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. At first we just got drunk together—"

"Harry!" Hermione interrupted, but Harry glared at her and she closed her mouth.

"Anyway," he continued pointedly, "Malfoy was being an arse to her all the time back in September, and you two had just gotten together—" he shrugged, "—Fred and George had just sent me a bottle of firewhiskey as a 'Thanks for Getting Rid of the Old Bastard' present, as they said, and I was looking for a quiet place to get pissed." 

He shrugged again, and tried not to remember how the two of them had leaned up against the stone walls of  _their_  room and bitched about Malfoy, Hermione and Ron together. He hadn't even noticed how small Pansy was that night.

"So anyway, I was half-drunk when she came in, threatening to report me, but I somehow managed to make her change her mind when I offered her some. We bitched for a while, and it kept happening. Every weekend. And then it started happening without the firewhiskey."

"And then you started liking her," Hermione finished for him.

Harry shrugged. He was doing a lot of that today. "Yeah."

-

Hermione ran off to the library an hour later, and Harry spent the morning playing chess with Ron. He tried to keep Pansy off his mind, but she kept slipping in—all small, graceful gestures and big, cocky mouth. He caught himself smiling absently as he moved a pawn forward to be slaughtered by Ron's knight. 

As it was a Sunday on a Hogsmeade weekend, the common room was still empty at half-twelve, but the few students who had trickled by on their ways into town had given him the same look, and the Quidditch game, unbidden, roared back into focus, along with the subsequent night with Pansy.

Harry frowned at the chessboard. It was mid-April and he had until the end of June with Pansy. Then she would be gone. It would be over. His hand stilled above the pieces, trembling slightly.

"Harry?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "Nothing."

Ron looked at him dubiously. 

"Nothing," Harry repeated. He knocked his king over, surrendering the game even though they were only a few plays in. "I'm going to go for a walk."

He didn't even give Ron a chance to respond before his was bounding back out of the portrait hole and down the stairs. Pansy would be in Hogsmeade with Greengrass, he was sure. His feet thundered down seven flights of stairs, through the castle doors and down the path to Hogsmeade. He was still running when he made it into town. 

Two months. Harry had two months with Pansy. He was going to spend every minute of it with her if he could help it, and he didn't give a damn what anyone thought of it.

He finally found her in the Happy Dementor—a shady little bar Seamus had shown him the year before and which he'd gotten drunk with Pansy at several times over the course of the year. 

She was sitting at the back with Greengrass, of course, hands wrapped around a large mug of Butterbeer, and the first thing he thought was that her shadow was bigger than she was. But he had always thought that. This was no different. 

Greengrass, sipping a glass of wine, chattered on inanely, her speech punctuated with filthy words as her curly hair bobbed about her face. Harry took a hesitant step forward, knowing that she would insult him if only to maintain their cover story, but not caring. He just wanted to look at her. She didn't even have to talk to him.

Pansy was a small thing, especially next to Greengrass and her huge mug of Butterbeer. Once, when Malfoy had been especially nasty, she had screamed in their little room and it had echoed for hours. Her feet had banged harshly against the walls, but she was small and always, always overcome by bigger things. 

Greengrass noticed him. 

She peered at him calculatingly from their table near assortment of moving-dementor photographs—all tinted bright, happy colours to make them look more like pretty swirls of smoke than the terrifying creatures they actually were. The irony rampant in the wizarding world was never lost on Harry.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" she asked.

Pansy stiffened next to her, head bobbing up to look at him with wide eyes. Harry took the remaining steps towards them and paused in front of their table. With Greengrass still sitting there, he couldn't just vault over the table and pull Pansy into his lap, but—but…yes.

"Good afternoon, Miss Greengrass, Miss Parkinson," Harry said in his smarmiest voice. Pansy choked on her Butterbeer and Greengrass procured a spectacular withering look for him from her repertoire. He sat down at the table, ordered a Butterbeer—because the last thing he wanted to do was get drunk in front of Daphne Greengrass—and stretched his arms over his head.

"Get up, Potter," Greengrass said—but only after she'd said several other choice things.

Harry shook his head. "I think we should be friends."

Greengrass laughed. "Friends, Potter? No one needs friends like you."

"That's for damned sure," Harry muttered. Pansy caught his eye from across the table, glaring. Harry glared back. She smiled into her mug of Butterbeer.

If he had ever known how easy it would be to win over Greengrass—well, he probably wouldn't have done it sooner, but it was easy to do, and he saved that knowledge for later. All he'd had to do was insult himself, even indirectly. 

He grinned beatifically when she slapped him on the back, and moved to sit in between the two girls so that Pansy might be able to slap him as well. He sipped his Butterbeer, fighting off the urge to pull Pansy to him as Greengrass alternately nattered and insulted him. 

She was drunk within the hour, having downed a whole bottle of wine, and her insults became worse with it. He suspected that she was beginning to tolerate him with the help of the alcohol. It was a wonderful day.

Once Greengrass ran off to the loos, he pulled Pansy aside—which any strong wind could've done—gave her a sloppy kiss hidden behind their hoods and said, "Ron and Hermione  _know_."

"Potter!" Pansy hissed, outraged. Her fingers clenched in his robes and she jerked him down to glare more closely at him. "You used a diversion tactic so that I wouldn't get mad at you!"

"I know," Harry grinned. He couldn't help it; he was always grinning around her. What a ponce he was.

Pansy's lips pursed and she shoved him back lightly. "What did they say?"

Harry shrugged. "Ron was okay with it because he thought it was just sex, and Hermione was okay with it once she knew it  _wasn't_  just sex, and neither of them are okay with it now that they know you're 'contracted'," he finger-quoted, "to Malfoy."

Pansy's eyes widened, but Harry carried on, "They both gave me worried looks and Hermione said she had to figure something out and ran off to the library, but—"

"You're babbling," Pansy babbled, wringing their hands. "Tell them there's no need. For Granger to figure anything out, anyway."

Harry stared at her oddly. "Right, well, I just wanted you to know. Neither of them was upset about it being you, really, but the contract thing bothered them."

"It would," Pansy muttered, staring at a yellow-tinted dementor photograph. It swirled around in the frame, sucking souls from out of nowhere and looking almost pleased afterwards.

"Why?" Harry asked.

Pansy narrowed her eyes, but did not answer because at that moment, Greengrass, looking a little worse for wear, stepped back up to the table.

"What's going on?" she asked, head cocked suspiciously. Harry shrugged, Pansy glared, Greengrass ordered another glass of red wine, and that was that.

-

In the weeks that followed, Harry ignored all of the disconcerting looks his friends gave him, the gloating Malfoy did about the game and the jealously he felt around him in favour of planning something really spectacular to do with or for Pansy. 

The only problem was that Pansy wasn't like your average Hufflepuff or Gryffindor girl. It was going to take more than flowers and cheap lighting to get her to give up Malfoy for him.

He had no idea what he was going to do. Or if it was even possible.

But it was May now, and he had just under two months to do that before they would be leaving school for the last time. Pansy would be whisked away to Malfoy Manor to become a Malfoy broodmare with millions in jewellery but no one to show them off to. Harry shuddered thinking of her cooped up in some dank old manor. 

Grimmauld Place was dank, too, but if she would stay with him, they could get a new place. He had nearly as much money as Malfoy did, and with Voldemort dead, he had the freedom to spend it. He would give it all to her, if she would just stay with him.

On his way to Charms, he wasn't paying attention, so when a small hand grabbed him and tugged him out of the corridor, he fell on his arse. "What the hell, Parkinson?" he whinged. 

Pansy stood above him, hands on her hips, foot tapping rhythmically against the stone floor. "Duel with me."

Rubbing his bottom, Harry carefully stood up, wincing all the while. "No."

"No?" Pansy repeated, absolutely scandalised.

"No," Harry affirmed. "You're pissed off—I can tell—and when you're pissed off, you use all those curses that I don't know how to block or counter and which leave me dickless for a week or something equally dreadful."

"So dodge them," Pansy said with a shrug.

Harry eyed her carefully. "If you counter them afterwards."

"All of them?" Pansy asked with a frown.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I'll duel with you if you counter all the nasty ones afterwards—and let it be noted," he added hastily when he saw her beginning to smile, "that the 'nasty' ones are the ones that I, by my own definition, think are 'nasty'. You counter  _all_  of them, Pansy. I'm not joking."

Pansy pouted, scuffed her toe demurely against the stone floor, and then assaulted him with a string of hair-removal curses that were considered 'curses' because they pulled each hair out one by one. He dodged it, having suspected her display to be an act, and shot off something that Fred and George developed the year before to 'give those damned midges a taste of their own potion'. 

Pansy sneered and dodged, but not before one of the purple sparks hit her skin, leaving a giant red welt. The difference between the spells Harry used and the ones Pansy used was that the effects of his stopped as soon as he finished the spell; Pansy's, on the other hand, could last for  _days_. He shuddered at the mere thought.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Harry asked breathlessly, at the same time throwing up a  _Protego_.

"Malfoy," Pansy huffed. She dodged his jelly-legs jinx, which Harry didn't think was very fair since she was such a small target, and hid behind a desk. "He stole my Transfigurations notes and then pinched my arse when I told him to give them back."

"What arse?" Harry asked, only to keep from screaming with jealous rage. How dare that little snot treat her like that? What gave Malfoy the right to devalue anyone—especially Pansy—like that? 

Pansy's head peaked out from behind the desk, and Harry shot her with  _Impedimenta_  before he vaulted over the edge of it and grabbed her. 

"Potter!" she wailed drunkenly. "Take it off."

Harry pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her waist before  _Finite_ -ing the spell. He rested his chin on her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her clean hair and hugging her tightly. "Don't put up with his stupid shit," he said.

Pansy was quiet for once; he continued, like he always did. "Don't marry him."

"Would you rather I marry you?" Pansy asked archly, but for the first time, Harry thought he heard a bit of desperation in her voice. Was she sounding him out? God, by now she should know that he would marry her in a heartbeat. She shouldn't  _have_  to sound him out, but if she did—if there was  _any_  way out of that contract and she had found it, he would play along.

Because,  _God_ , he wanted to wake up to her every morning.

"Course," he said airily. He flexed his arm in front of her. "Look how strong I am. I'd be a smashing husband."

Pansy laughed and slapped his hand. "Quite."

He wrapped his arm back around her and squeezed, burying his face in her hair. "I would, you know," he whispered against her ear. "I'd do it before you could say 'Malfoy will never beat me to the snitch again, the stupid tosser'."

"That's a lot to say," Pansy noted.

Harry shrugged. "Hermione would need the time to get qualified to officiate."

"Why would Granger be doing it?"

"Because, you silly wench, she wouldn't allow anyone else to do it."

Pansy settled back against him. "You're missing Charms."

"I know," Harry said. "Pansy—"

"Don't say it," Pansy said, but she didn't sound half as resolute as she usually did. Harry unwrapped his arms from around her, and she held her hand out obediently while he drew the words on her palm. 

-

The next Saturday, Harry was standing under the hot spray of the Quidditch showers, trying to get his muscles loosened up for the final game, when he heard footsteps.

"Ron?" he asked, even though he knew it would be another hour or so before the rest of the Quidditch team showed up. "Ron, is that you?"

The footsteps stopped in front of his shower stall, and Harry ducked his head out from behind the curtain, only to yelp and duck back in. "Hermione! What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you," Hermione said urgently. "And I knew you would be alone here."

"Of course I'd be alone here; this is the changing room and I'm in the shower!"

"The girls on the team shower and change with you lot," she replied efficiently. That was true, of course, but Hermione wasn't on the team. And besides, from what he could tell, the other girls on the team cared more for bludgers than boys.

"Yeah, well," Harry stuck his head out again and stared at her. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the bench with a notebook in her lap. So caught up in reading over her notes, Harry had to call her name twice to get her to look back up—and then he regretted it, as it made him blush.

"Are you still seeing Parkinson?"

Harry gave her a withering look. She knew, of course, that he was still seeing Pansy. "If you're just going to nag me, I'm going to go back to my shower…"

"Not at all," Hermione said, all business, but, Harry noticed, her voice was strange. "It's only that I've been looking in the library—" Harry rolled his eyes, already fed up, "—and I finally found what I was looking for."

Harry went back to his shower, letting the hot water pound against his back as he called out, half-interested, "Oh? What's that?"

"Well," Hermione continued over the rushing water—and Harry could almost  _hear_  her biting her lip as she said it—, "You said that Parkin – Pansy – was betrothed to Malfoy. 'Contracted', you said."

"Yeah, I said 'contracted'," Harry affirmed wearily. He knew it was hopeless. He didn't need Hermione to tell him that. "That's what Pansy told me, any road."

"Harry, did you know that those sorts of contracts are magically binding?" Hermione asked in a rush. Harry closed his eyes under the spray of the shower. Somewhere, deep in his mind, where all of his hopeless dreams lay, that thought had lurked. He hadn't wanted to believe it, of course, but he supposed he had better get used to it—

"And did you know," Hermione continued, "that it binds the two betrothed children to each other? So that they cannot…be intimate…with any other person, so long as the contract is in effect?"

Harry's eyes snapped open. "But," he stuttered, "She…we… _you know_ ," he said. "We  _have_  been…intimate. Lots of times." He was blushing now, and it wasn't due to the temperature of the water on his skin.

"I know," Hermione squeaked. "That's what I'm getting to. The fact that she—Pansy—has been intimate with you means that…well, in order to override the contract, even though it's still in effect, the betrothed has to actually  _love_  her…paramour.  _Real_  love, I mean, Harry…Pansy really loves you."

Harry smiled to himself. He knew that, of course, even if neither of them had ever said the words aloud. The fact that she let him write them on her hand said enough to him. 

"I know," he said, still smiling. He suddenly felt very giddy, and couldn't wait to get to the Quidditch game. This one would be for Pansy. Because she loved him, and he loved her, and…

"But the contract is still valid," Hermione continued, unaware of the stupid looks crossing Harry's face. His smile fell immediately, and the Quidditch game didn't seem like such an exciting prospect anymore.

His head thumped back against the tiles and he sighed. 

"Yeah, I figured that." Scrubbing his eyes with his fingers, he asked, "So, it's permanent, isn't it? That's what you came to tell me? That, sure we love each other, but there's nothing either one of us can do about it so I might as well just quit while I'm ahead?" He wasn't ahead, of course, but he didn't ever think he would be after falling for Pansy.

"No," Hermione said slowly. "I was going to tell you that there are no 'accidental' pregnancies in the wizarding world." Harry scoffed. Like he really needed a lesson on wizarding genes right now. 

"That's because," Hermione continued from the other side of the shower curtain, "witches have natural contraceptives in their bodies, more so than muggle women. Pregnancy will not occur unless both partners want, at least subconsciously, for a child to come of their union."

"And?" Harry asked sarcastically.

"And," Hermione said pointedly, "That is why pregnancy is the only way to dissolve a marriage contract. If a woman becomes pregnant with her paramour's child, then it is really quite obvious that she does not want to be with her betrothed. The contract automatically dissolves after both parties become aware of and accept the child."

"Lovely," Harry muttered. Like Pansy would ever go for that.

Hermione sighed dramatically. "I just figured you might want to know all of this before you head up to the hospital wing."

"Are you taking the piss?" He stuck his head out the curtain again and stared at her through narrowed eyes. He hadn't had a Quidditch accident all year; there was no cause for making fun of him.

"No," Hermione said. "But when I was up there for a concentration potion—NEWTs are coming up, you know—I heard Madame Pomfrey tell Pansy, who was vomiting, that she shouldn't be stressing herself when she's in such a 'delicate' state."

Harry's eyes went wide. Pansy was sick!

"And," Hermione added, "Pansy then went on to say, 'I'm not delicate, you cow, I'm pregnant'."

Harry nearly fell out of the shower, not caring what Hermione saw, as he scrambled to gather his clothes. He had his trousers on in a matter of seconds, not bothering with his pants, and threw his Quidditch robes over himself without a shirt. As he was hopping into his shoes, Hermione shut off the shower.

"Shall I ask Madame Hooch if it would be possible to postpone the game?" she asked.

"I don't care. Malfoy can have the effing game, all I care," he yelled. He was out the door and halfway to the castle before any of it really sunk in.

-

Pansy was indeed in the hospital wing when he got there. She was all trussed up in overlarge white pyjamas, arms crossed over her chest, scowling.

"You're going to miss the game," Harry said as he stepped up to her bed. Pansy jumped, startled, and looked up at him.

"Looks like you are, too. Did Granger let you dress yourself this morning?" 

Harry scoffed and sat on the edge of the bed. His hair was soaking wet and he looked ridiculous with school trousers and Quidditch robes, but he didn’t care. 

From the way Pansy had her arms crossed, the material of the pyjamas stretched tightly and Harry noticed, for the first time, that her belly wasn't as skinny as it used to be.

"You're getting fat," he said conversationally. Leaning over, he picked up a potion bottle labelled 'Omega-3' from her side table and tsked. "Should lay off the nutritional potions," he added, pinching her thigh lightly. 

She squeaked, and he was finally able to look her in the eye. Pansy was staring at him apprehensively. Suddenly, he was very tired of teasing her. He just wanted to tell her how beautiful she was to him and how stupid he became when she was near.

"Yeah," he said to her unasked question, "I know. Hermione told me."

"It's yours," Pansy said, almost an accusation. Almost, but not quite.

Harry grinned. "I know that, too," he said, and ran his hand lightly over her stomach. "What? Did you think I'd deny it?"

Pansy looked away. "No…I sounded you out first. Just to make sure. But, you know, I was still apprehensive."

Shoving her softly until she moved over, Harry lay down next to Pansy on the bed and pulled her back against him. "Why?"

"You know the contract's void now?" she asked instead. "Now that you've accepted the child?" Harry nodded into her hair. "Well, I'm yours now. You're obligated to take me now that I'm pregnant."

"Who wouldn't want to take you?" Harry asked lightly.

Pansy scoffed. "Malfoy, I'd imagine. He's wanted Daphne for years."

Harry laughed. "If anyone could keep Malfoy in his place, it would be Greengrass…but I wouldn't wish that on even her."

"You won't get a dowry for me, you know." Pansy's sudden almost non sequitur came out in a rush. "In fact, you'll have to pay my father for the bride price."

"They still do that?" Harry asked incredulously.

Pansy nodded. "When you dissolve a marriage contract, and thus an alliance, yeah."

Harry dismissed it, waving his hand vaguely above them. "That's not a problem. How much are you worth, anyway?"

Pansy shrugged. "One-half percent of your net worth." She said it lightly, but Harry could tell that she was still slightly apprehensive. They had never spoken of money before, after all. She knew he owned Grimmauld Place, and that he could afford to buy her lunch and drinks occasionally, but not that he had inherited not only the Potter estate, but the Black estate as well.

He did some quick math in his head, thankful for his time in muggle school. "That's only a few hundred thousand," he answered easily. "I'll still have plenty left over to bury you under jewellery."

Pansy stiffened. "What?"

"What, what?" Harry asked sardonically. "You thought you were giving up millions to marry a beggar boy?"

"No," Pansy answered slowly. "I thought I was giving up millions to act like a stupid Gryffindor in love."

Harry scoffed and hugged her to him. "You're thinking of Hufflepuffs. A Gryffindor would kill the other guy in a fit of righteousness after his wench married him, thus getting not only the woman, but the money."

Pansy tsked patronizingly. "You're confusing yourself with a Slytherin."

"No, I'm not," Harry said. "A Slytherin would kill the other guy in a fit of  _vengeance_  after he married his wench, then have his solicitors cover it all up and covertly transfer the money to his account."

"Maybe there isn't much difference," Pansy said as she wrapped her fingers around his. Automatically, Harry found himself tracing the first letter over her skin. She stopped him with a squeeze to his fingers. "You can say it."

Harry looked down at her, fingers still curled around her hand, and searched her face. She smiled timidly, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Now that it was finally happening, he was too caught up in the rush of feeling Pansy next to him to properly grasp it all.

This was really it. He was really going to have her after all this time. It didn't feel real, but he wanted it to be more than anything. 

And there would be a baby sometime within the next year—a little person that they had made  _on purpose_. Together. He was going to be a father, and Pansy was going to be a Potter, and he didn't give a damn if he ever played Quidditch again because he'd already caught the best, fastest snitch of all.

Ron was going to kill him. And maybe Malfoy, too. He found himself grinning stupidly, as he was wont to do around her.

"I love you, wench," he finally said.

Pansy blushed, then sneered, then bit her lip. She looked so small that Harry couldn't help tucking her half-beneath him. Face mashed against his chest, she mumbled, "Love you, too, stupid."

Harry didn't think he'd ever heard more poetic words in his entire life.

-

_End._

**Author's Note:**

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